


What Hurts Most

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Whump, Bounty Hunters, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Law, Violence, hurt Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-13 16:58:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: Arthur has a bounty on his head, and it was only a matter of time until someone took advantage of that. The bruises and broken bones hurt, but old insecurities rising from the past prove to be a different kind of pain.Arthur wonders if anyone even thinks he's worth saving.





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur was going to kill Mary Gillis. Mary  _ Linton.  _ Whatever the hell she wanted to be called now. She’d changed, and she’d left Arthur behind.

Or maybe she hadn’t changed. Maybe she’d always been like this, a self-pitying, manipulating, entitled woman who Arthur was never good enough for. Or maybe Arthur was just angry. Angry at himself for being so stupid, so gullible. Angry for still loving her. 

If Dutch were here, he’d probably laugh at Arthur for staying hopeful, even after all the cruel words. He’d warned him against Mary since the beginning, warned that she would never accept him for who he was. 

“Hands up!” 

Then again, it was probably for the best that Dutch wasn’t here.

“Get on your knees!” 

He was still watching Mary, the woman held back by her father, and Arthur didn’t think there had ever been a man he wanted to shoot in the face so badly. She was crying, at least having the decency to look ashamed and appalled, but she wouldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes. 

In fairness to her, she couldn’t have known it was a trap. They had both been tricked, as much as he wanted to blame her. Mary’s words were often cruel, but she wouldn’t have done this. It wasn’t in her nature to take advantage of someone like this.

Then again, maybe it was. Maybe that was all she had ever done. Mary had used Arthur’s feelings to her advantage, knowing he’d do anything for her. Knowing he’d come out to see her, knowing he’d do all he could to help the Gillis family, knowing he would meet her wherever she asked. 

But this? This had to be Mr. Gillis. Mary’s words had always torn him down, made him feel like he wasn’t good enough, but her father’s words had always felt like a knife, digging deeper into his chest with each insult, each disapproving glare. 

And those feelings of inadequacy had come rushing back as soon as the day started, the rise of the sun reminding him once again of the hold the Gillis family had on him

He’d known the letter was Mary’s from the moment Miss Grimshaw reluctantly handed it to him, a dangerous glimmer in her eye. Arthur knew that look, the older woman wanted nothing more than to toss the letter into the fire. 

And then he’d seen the exasperated faces of the rest of the gang, saw the hastily re-sealed envelope, and knew he was the last to read his own letter. 

“Christ,” he muttered, tearing the paper open. “Ever heard of  _ privacy?”  _

“People get bored, Mr. Morgan,” Miss Grimshaw said. “But don’t you even think about throwing yourself back at that girl. She ain’t good for you.” 

Arthur didn’t reply, knowing she was right, and knowing he wouldn’t be able to listen. He  _ hated _ Mary, hated the way she treated him like he was less than her, blamed him for the life he had no choice but to live, hated the way she’d cast him aside over and over again. 

And yet, once again, she wanted him to come to her. And Arthur was already grabbing his satchel and starting towards his horse, deliberately ignoring Miss Grimshaw’s scoff as he turned away.  

“Arthur!” Dutch called from across camp, stalking towards the hitching post, positioned like he’d been waiting expectantly. Nosy bastard. Arthur stopped, horse’s reins in his hands, dreading what was coming. “Where’re you off to, son?”  

It was a warning rather than a question, and Arthur had to suppress his groan, anticipating the conversation they’d already had too many times. 

“Pretty sure the whole camp knows where I’m going by now,” he said, and he heard Dutch sigh. “I’ll just be gone a few days.”

“Take a ride with me first.” 

Dutch had tried to stop him from going. To his credit, he’d really tried. He’d never liked Mary, never liked the way her family treated Arthur. The older man had always seemed to know it would only end in heartbreak, and he’d always been able to see through her manipulation. 

But it was never enough, Arthur always rushing to her side like it would be different. He didn’t even know what the sliver of hope was for anymore, but it always remained. And this time was no different. 

“You and I both know you should ignore that letter,” Dutch advised, doing nothing but strengthening Arthur’s pent up anger. “You know she doesn’t...you remember the way they treated you. Like you were less than them. They--” 

“Jesus, Dutch _,_ ” Arthur snapped, cutting off Dutch’s painful reminders. “I _am_ less than them! We all are! It don’t matter what you say, we’ll never be good enough. Not to people like that.” 

“Watch your tone, Arthur.” 

“I’m  _ going,”  _ Arthur said. He had no idea where the sudden rush of anger had come from, why he was suddenly so furious at Dutch, but Mary’s name hadn’t been mentioned for months, and the letter caused the infuriating insecurity to come flooding back. “At least just to get away from folk who can’t mind their own damn business.” 

“She doesn’t love you, Arthur,” Dutch argued, like Arthur didn’t already know. “She’s  _ using  _ you. Just like she always has. Stop being a goddamn child and get back to camp.” 

It was like a punch to the gut, words he already knew being thrown in his face, like Mr. Gillis’s words all those years ago. It would be the same every time, and he knew that. He didn’t even want Mary in his life anymore. She would always just need something from him, draining him until he stopped being useful. 

“Just..just back off,” he managed, throat feeling tight. He swallowed, ashamed. “Please. Just leave it alone.” 

“Arthur--” 

“Just get the hell  _ away  _ from me, Dutch!” 

He yanked on his horse’s reins, veering onto the path and turning away from camp. Dutch didn’t try to follow, but he wasn’t done talking. 

“You really did turn into a selfish little brat, didn’t you?” 

Arthur scoffed. “Learned from the best, didn’t I?” 

“You know what?” he called. Arthur pulled his horse to a stop again, hearing the barely controlled rage in Dutch’s voice matching his own. “Go. Go be her loyal  _ dog,  _ Arthur. I don’t care _.  _ It’s best if you stay away for a while.” 

“And  _ I’m  _ the one acting like a child?” Arthur challenged, risking a glance over his shoulder at a fuming Dutch. “Really? What the hell are you so worked up about? Why do you care?” 

“I  _ don’t.”  _ They were both practically screaming at this point, battling against the distance and their anger. “Get out of here. Go! I’m sure somebody somewhere can stand the sight of your face, but I can’t. Go let that girl walk all over you.” 

“Sure,” Arthur said, just loud enough for the other to hear. “Rather deal with Mary than listen to you pretend to know what you’re talking about for another damn second. For god’s sakes, Dutch, do you really have a plan? For any of us? Or are you just lying to our faces while we waste away, sleeping in the dirt like the criminals we are?” 

Arthur’s chest twisted in guilt when he saw the flash of hurt in Dutch’s eyes. But like wounding an animal, it only made him more dangerous. 

“You know what?” Dutch growled. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she didn’t leave you because of how you live, maybe she left you because you’re an insufferable little--” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ, shut  _ up!”  _

“If you’re not going to grow up and treat me with some goddamn respect, you might as well just not come back!”

It stung, Arthur’s mind racing to figure out if the words were genuine. But his anger was only growing, clouding his mind, his mouth moving without his brain’s permission. 

“Sounds good to me.” He kicked his horse, grasping the reins as he took off down the path. Dutch’s voice was loud and clear behind him. 

“You’re pathetic, you know that? When your body gets dumped in a ditch somewhere, don’t expect me to come save your ass!” 

That had been almost two days ago, the ride to Strawberry long, miserable and cold. The feelings of grief and hurt and regret were hitting full force now, because if these men decided to shoot those would be the last words Dutch ever said to him.

“I said get on your knees, boy. Now!” 

He was surrounded. There were four men, one on every side, guns trained steadily on Arthur, more weapons on their belts. They were bounty hunters, experienced ones, and they wouldn’t have a problem traveling with a corpse if their prisoner didn’t comply. 

“Calm down,” Arthur said, voice held steady as he raised his hands. “You got me. Just don’t shoot, alright?” 

“You can’t do this!” Mary was screaming, her voice already fading as her father dragged her away. At least she hadn’t known it was a trap, the knowledge offering a small amount of comfort to the bleak situation. “You can’t--Daddy! Daddy, they’ll  _ kill _ him!” 

Arthur couldn’t hear what Mr. Gillis said, and frankly, he didn’t want to. The old man was probably already planning a party. He would no doubt personally attend Arthur’s public hanging if given the chance. 

Assuming he was given the courtesy of living that long. 

There was a hand on the back of his neck, slamming him face first into the dirt. He hit the ground, hard, stars dancing in his vision as a boot dug into his back, holding him down. But they weren’t handcuffing him, and Arthur’s blood ran cold. 

Something heavy hit his side, pulling back to hit him again and again, each swing with more force than the one before. Somebody kicked his other side, the toes of the boots pointed and sharp, Arthur doing all he could to stifle a whimper. 

Above him, the bounty hunters were laughing, gleefully beating a man for the sheer enjoyment of it. He hoped Mary was long gone, though a dark part of him wanted her to see this. 

Suddenly, someone was stomping on his hand, outstretched beside his head, and Arthur couldn’t help but cry out, feeling his bones crunch and break beneath the man’s boot. 

The torment continued, the kicks only growing more painful. At one point the foot on his back moved to press into the back of his head, and Arthur suddenly found it difficult to breathe. But they weren’t trying to kill him. Either that, or they were just doing it agonizingly slow. 

When it became nearly unbearable, Arthur tried to struggle away from the onslaught of boots, able to shift his head just enough to see the legs of one of his attackers. His vision cleared just in time to see the end of a gun flying at his face before white-hot pain flashed through his body and he fell behind a gray haze of agony. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Jesus. The hell you do to him?”

“Not nearly enough.” 

“He’s  _ fine _ .”

Arthur groaned, everything aching, his hand throbbing like someone had stuck a knife in it. The voices swirled up around him, blending together into a painful blur. He was on the ground again, fairly certain he’d fallen just before waking, unable to hold back a gasp when he tried to move his shattered hand. 

“Well, look who’s awake!” 

One of the bounty hunters, his voice easily recognizable, said cheerfully from above him. The blow was unexpected, Arthur crying out when the man kicked him in the ribs again. He flinched when he heard more laughter, trying to crawl away, but his hands were cuffed behind his back and his legs were tightly bound together. 

Someone flipped him over onto his back with their shoe and he hissed, every movement sending new waves of pain through his body. 

There was a hand on his face, holding his head steady, the grip far from gentle. The man looking into his eyes wasn’t a bounty hunter, and Arthur’s stomach churned when he saw the sheriff badge.

“I hear you’ve got quite a price on your head, Mr. Morgan,” he said. Arthur tried to twist away, the man’s grasp on his jaw only tightening. “Try and relax. You’ll be swinging soon enough.” 

Arthur spit, still overcome with anger and fear, bloody saliva hitting the lawmen right in the eye. It probably wasn’t the best idea, but he couldn’t stop himself from smirking when the man’s face twisted in disgust, his hold on Arthur’s face coming undone. 

The lawmen grabbed Arthur's shirt, raising him up and slamming him back onto the ground. The back of his head hit the dirt, pain flaring from his bruised and cracked ribs. 

There was a fist flying at his face and Arthur clenched his jaw with a quiet groan. He was pretty sure the second punch, somehow more violent than the first, broke his nose, his face warm and wet with his own blood. 

“The money?” someone asked, ignoring his misery. 

“You’ll get it when we’re back in town,” the sheriff said. “Help me transfer him to the jail. Just in case someone comes for him.”

The sudden spark of hope was short-lived, Arthur’s stomach dropping when he remembered Dutch’s words. But he couldn’t have meant them, they were just cruel threats spat out in a moment of anger. It was still Dutch. They’d fought before, he would still come for Arthur. 

Then again, their fights had rarely become that heated. And they’d been during simpler times, times when the tension wasn’t so heavy, when it wasn’t already hard enough to feed the mouths they had. 

Dutch didn’t even know he needed help. Right now, Arthur doubted he cared enough to worry. Maybe he thought Arthur wasn’t coming home by choice. 

There were hands under his shoulders, more on his legs, roughly lifting him up and dragging him forward. He tried to fight, knowing it was futile, falling still when he received a punch to the gut for his efforts. 

He was being thrown forward, hitting something cold and solid, just able to make out the back of the wagon he’d been carelessly tossed inside before the doors slammed shut, leaving him darkness. 

The air was thin and dusty, Arthur left to lay on his stomach, the position aggravating his fresh bruises and rising headache. He struggled to turn over on his side, groaning against the pain, finally managing to slowly flip himself over. The metal of the cuffs were digging into his wrists, drawing blood, and he could feel the crimson stream from his nose dripping down his neck.

The wagon lurched forward, and Arthur had to blink away sudden tears, the jostling of his injuries feeling like fire against his skin. 

He rode out the waves of agony, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the throbbing in his sides and the rocking of the wagon. The voices outside were distant and muffled, the quiet noises eventually lulling him into a dreamless sleep. 

 

Arthur hadn’t ventured too far from town to meet Mary, and the ride into Strawberry couldn’t have taken more than a couple hours. 

He awoke with a start, crying out against the sudden flash of cold, blinking water out of his eyes. There was laughter, and Arthur squinted to see a man standing at the wagon’s doors, holding a now empty bucket.

“Morning, Mr. Morgan.” It was one of the bounty hunters, grinning down at a now soaked and shivering Arthur. “Did I wake you?” 

Through the discomfort, Arthur managed a smile. “We here already?” 

“Come on, cowboy.” 

Hands grabbed his ankles, pulling him forward. His vision momentarily went black, dunking him under a new wave of pain when he was yanked out of the wagon, landing on the muddy street. More hands he couldn't see grabbed his shirt, dragging him up rickety wooden stairs and through a door into what Arthur assumed was Strawberry’s jail. 

They threw him on the floor, cut the ropes on his legs, undid the handcuffs, and Arthur reacted immediately. 

He kicked out, sweeping one of the men off their feet, smiling against his own pain when he heard him hit the ground. His second kick hit something solid, hearing someone stumble back with a yell. It wasn’t an escape attempt, he knew he didn’t have a chance, but he refused to go down without a fight. At the very least it was to remind himself that he wasn’t dead yet. 

He should have known it would be a mistake not nearly worth the effort. 

Someone stepped down on his throat, Arthur’s kicks ceasing as he choked on the sudden pressure, pulling and clawing at the boot below his chin. Punches to the stomach knocked the wind out of him, the men landing blow after blow, and Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly feeling like he was going to vomit. 

But they weren’t done. Even when the boot mercifully left his neck and the punches stopped, Arthur could still hear the malice in their snickers. 

One of them grabbed the collar of his shirt, hoisting him to his feet, ignoring the cry of pain he couldn’t fight against. Two of them were behind him, one wrapping an arm around his battered torso to hold him in place. The other took his arm, holding it straight and rigid, and Arthur’s heart clenched when he realized what they were doing. 

“Hold on,” he tried, hating how the fear made his voice unsteady. He was still struggling, doing all he could to twist out of their hold, not nearly strong enough to succeed. “I’m--I’m cooperating, I’m not--” 

The man in front of him kicked his knee with a hollow thud, Arthur barely given time to register the strike before the bounty hunter holding his arm pulled back, breaking the bone in one move. 

The sickening crack was drowned out by Arthur’s scream, the men cheering and laughing as they finally let go, sending him crashing to the ground. 

And yet they  _ still  _ wouldn’t leave him alone, despite the whimpers and pathetic pained gasps Arthur wasn't trying to hold back anymore, everything clouded by humiliation and pain.

There was suddenly pressure against his broken arm as the lawman from before leaned against it before lowering himself to the floor with a grim smile, his weight still on the injured arm. 

“You’re going to swing, boy.” There was a hand in his hair, pulling his head off the floor, and Arthur just managed to stifle another cry. “I’m paying these boys a lot of money for your head, so you don’t cause me any more trouble. Got it? You useless sack of shit?”

Arthur, knowing the safest thing to do would be to keep his mouth shut, fixed the lawman with a cold glare, swallowing against the blood in his mouth. But his fight wasn’t quite gone yet. “Go to hell.” 

At least this time, he was able to anticipate the blow before it came. The pressure against his arm finally lifted, Arthur groaning when the man kicked him twice in the ribs, scoffing when the beaten man curled up on his side, spitting blood onto the floor. 

It couldn’t be legal, beating a wounded prisoner like this, but it didn’t seem like anybody cared. From the sound of it, his torture was nothing but a thing of amusement. 

“Try not to die in my cell,” the lawmen mocked, finally stepping away. “We promised the town a hanging. Didn't we, boys?” 

Arthur closed his eyes, listening to the screech of the cell door as it was slammed shut and locked. He shivered against the cold floor, still wet from the water, his whole body on fire from the beatings, his arm feeling like it had been ripped clean off. 

He heard the men talking about their payment, no longer concerned with whether the prisoner lived or died, and Arthur bitterly hoped they ended up robbing Mr. Gillis from his share. 

Everything was fading once again as darkness seeped into his vision, the pain following him into unconsciousness. 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_ “She doesn’t love you.”  _

Each word was accompanied by a flash of pain, Arthur forced to lay still and take the torment, unable to move. 

_ “You’re a killer and a thief. Nobody loves you. Not that gang and not my daughter. You are unloved, Arthur Morgan. And it’s what you deserve.” _

It was Mr. Gillis’s voice, the words cold and familiar. But it seemed to be two people at once, a second voice seeping into the hateful tone.

_ “You’re pathetic.”  _ And suddenly it was Dutch’s voice, piercing Arthur like ice.  _ “She couldn’t stand the sight of you. Nobody can.”  _

It was hard to breathe, the pain worsening in sickening waves. But the words made his chest go cold, sending his mind into a panicked confusion. 

_ “Don’t expect me to come save you.”  _

Arthur jolted awake, whimpering and shaking, still on the floor, the lingering words somehow more painful than the countless bruises and shattered bones. He heard voices, all of them familiar, and Arthur dared to open his eyes, wondering if he was going to be beaten again. 

He could see the sheriff standing near the door just a few paces from the cell, the sight of the man’s bruised and bloody knuckles just making Arthur shake harder. 

But next to him, despite the unfamiliar clothes, he recognized Dutch, and his sigh of relief pulled at his throbbing throat. Before Arthur could stop himself, he was whimpering against the pain suddenly worsening throughout his entire body. He saw Dutch go rigid, he and the sheriff turning to glance at the cell. 

The lawman was saying something, moving to hold the door open, but Arthur wasn’t listening to him. The blood rushing in his ears, the pounding of his head, his pain was washing away everything, his focus only on Dutch. He waited for the other man to make a move, to get him the hell out of here, to bring him home and scold him for being stupid enough to leave in the first place. 

But Dutch wasn’t making a move. He shook the sheriff’s hand, talking pleasantly to the man who had done this to Arthur, who was going to have him hanged, and the world seemed to come to a stop. 

“No--” Talking just made his ribs hurt worse, moving threatening to send him back into the empty void of cruel dreams, but he didn't care. All he saw was Dutch’s back, stepping through the door and leaving him behind. “ _ No.”  _

The door slammed shut, leaving him and the sheriff alone, and Arthur could no longer stop his tears, the realization that Dutch really wasn’t going to save him hurting worse than any beating. 

“The man’s just looking for a job,” the sheriff explained, casually, like Arthur’s whole world wasn’t crumbling. “Nobody’s going to help you, Mr. Morgan. You’re going to die in pain, and nobody’s going to care. You’re just a crazed murderer who tried to kill the sheriff, and I had to act in self defense. You understand?” 

He didn’t. He was struggling to make sense of anything, hearing the man’s words, knowing they were true, unable to make sense of why. 

Dutch had left him behind to die. Had Arthur simply been drained of his usefulness, cast aside by his family like Mary had done? Had Dutch been waiting for an opportunity to get rid of Arthur, tired of his doubting? 

Arthur stared at the broken hand at his side, suddenly feeling a suffocating sense of shame. Had he ever been worth saving? To anyone? 

The cell door was opening and Arthur groaned, not sure he could handle another beating. Maybe the sheriff would get it over with and just kill him. 

“I’m gonna enjoy watching you hang,” the man said. Arthur was suddenly being hoisted into a sitting position, his back slamming against the wall, making him cry out. Not for the first time, he wondered how the law could get away with often being so much worse than the men they hunted down. “After what you did, what’s left of the town will too.” 

Arthur furrowed his brow, his confusion quickly replaced with fear when the sheriff produced a knife from his belt, the tip of the silver blade now pressed against his lip. Something had clearly driven this man over the edge. Lawmen were often cold, heartless, but Arthur had never seen one so sadistic.

“You and your buddy killed my friends,” the sheriff snarled. “ _ All  _ of them. You bastards shot up the entire town. Killed  _ good  _ men _.  _ Men doing their _ jobs,  _ Morgan _.  _ And for what? Because you people think you get to decide who lives and dies? I'm going to watch you die, and then I’m going to find your friend. He’ll die the same way you did.”  __

The pieces fell into place and Arthur’s heart sank, finally understanding. He wondered if it would help his case to explain that he really couldn’t care less about what happened to Micah, not given the chance to open his mouth before the knife was pressing down, drawing blood as it slid down to his chin. 

He whimpered, the cuts stinging unbearably against his already bloody, sore face. The knife drew the same patterns on either side of his jaw, the blade continuing to dig deeper until Arthur whined pathetically, the noise escaping no matter how hard he tried to stay silent. 

“Not so tough now, are you?” the sheriff taunted, finally pulling the knife away from his face. “You’re going to  _ hang,  _ Mr. Morgan. You’re going to swing there, your neck snapped like a twig, and nobody's going to miss your sorry ass.” 

Arthur said nothing, knowing he was right, still struggling to come to terms with it. Had everyone decided to leave him behind? Hosea? John? Did he matter so little to all of them? 

The sheriff grabbed his wrist, sending shooting spikes of pain across his shattered hand, thrusting the knife through his palm and into the wall behind him. 

Arthur was screaming before he even registered the pain, his face wet with tears he hadn’t even noticed he’d shed. He didn’t even realize he’d been screaming Dutch’s name until he fell silent, body wracked with sobs. 

The sheriff stood, seemingly satisfied, slipping out of the cell and locking it behind him. Arthur fought to get ahold of his breathing, each movement tearing at his impaled hand, pulling at the already shattered bones. 

He couldn’t even try to get the knife out, his other arm broken and useless at his side and in just as much agony as the rest of his body. 

“This is what you deserve, Arthur Morgan.” 

The sheriff returned to his desk and Arthur hung his head with one last whimper, the pain refusing to let him fall back asleep. 

  
  
****  
  
  


Whatever Strawberry’s lawmen had done would be nothing compared to what Dutch was going to do when he got his hands on Arthur. The stubborn bastard should have  _ listened.  _

Of course it had been a trap, of course after Micah’s jailbreak the area was too dangerous for Arthur to go in alone, and of course he’d insisted on acting like a child and gone in anyway. 

“But he’s still alive?” Dutch asked, mounting The Count, his anger put on hold until the question was answered. 

“Last time I checked,” Trelawney replied, and Dutch forced himself to relax. “We have some time. His hanging isn’t for another few days.” 

He nodded, scanning the watching camp. “Mr. Smith? Gather supplies and head out in a few hours. Best if we go in separately, keep a low profile.”

Charles nodded, and Dutch turned his horse towards the camp’s entrance, Trelawney riding close at his side. 

“Let’s get your boy back.” 

They rode in silence, Dutch never slowing as they thundered across the grassy hills, the sun slowly beginning to set. They didn’t stop to set up camp, Trelawney seeming to know better than to suggest stopping, Dutch mentally counting the hours in his head. 

“You can’t hang a corpse, Mr. Van der Linde,” Trelawney said, the words meant to be reassuring. “Arthur will be just fine.” 

“I’m going to kill him,” Dutch muttered, pushing his horse faster. “That idiot should have listened to me.” 

“I heard you two got into a...disagreement a few days ago,” Trelawney said, and Dutch scoffed. He’d been at camp two minutes and somebody had already told him. “Is this about that Mary girl? Her wagon left Strawberry a couple days ago.” 

“Of course it did.” 

“Well whatever happens,” Trelawney said. “This isn’t your fault.” 

“I  _ know  _ that,” Dutch snapped, eyes glued to the road ahead. “It’s the stubborn bastard’s fault for insisting on going in the first place. I’ve warned him about that girl for years. Should just leave him to hang.” 

Trelawney hummed to himself, and Dutch could feel the man’s eyes on him. “It’s getting late. We could set up camp over--” 

“No,” Dutch said, a bit too forcefully, and he didn’t miss Trelawney’s smile. “We’re not stopping.” 

The other man nodded. “That’s what I thought.” 

The two of them made it to Strawberry by the next afternoon, riding through the night, stopping once to let their horses rest by a stream. They dismounted at a vantage point, a hill outside the small town overlooking the jailhouse. 

“Doesn’t look like they’re too worried about a breakout,” Trelawney observed. “I see one lawman on the porch, another down the street.” 

“That’s probably all they have after what Arthur and Micah did. I’ll head inside. See what kind of shape Arthur’s in.” 

“Put this on, then.” Trelawney reached into his saddlebag, unfurling a dusty black coat and a battered old hat. “You’re just a traveling bounty hunter looking for a job.” 

Dutch nodded and did as he was told, pulling the coat over his vest, slipping off his rings and dropping them into his pocket. He swapped out his hat, nodded to Trelawney, both mounting and starting for the town’s main entrance. 

“You go talk to the one down the street,” Dutch said. “See if you can find out how much time we have. Meet me behind the jail when you’re done.” 

They hitched their horses outside the saloon, splitting apart to go their separate ways, walking the streets of the quiet town. Dutch nodded to the guard as he traversed the porch steps of the jailhouse, the man giving him a curious look but saying nothing as he slipped inside. 

“Can I help you?” 

The sheriff was an older man, taller than Dutch, face decorated with a thick gray mustache. His knuckles were red and bruised, and Dutch forced himself to look away. 

“I hope so,” he said, flashing a charming smile. “I’m, ah, I’m actually in need of some money and I was hoping--” 

“If I had any bounties,” the sheriff finished, moving away from his desk. “I wish I could help, but someone just bought that bastard over there in, and he’s the only one I’ve got any information about.” 

Dutch followed his gaze, hands curling into fists when he saw the cell at the end of the room. 

Arthur was on the floor, curled up on his side, unmoving, eyes closed. The bars of the cell kept Dutch from getting a good look, but Arthur’s face was stained with dried blood, his jaw bruised. 

“Dumbass tried to kill me,” the sheriff explained. “Believe me, I hate hurting my prisoners. I try to let them die with as much dignity as possible but sometimes--” 

“I understand,” Dutch said, struggling to keep his forced smile. “Sometimes they just don’t listen.” 

He could only imagine the fight Arthur had put up. He had probably deserved those few punches to the face. 

A sudden whimper came from the cell, and Dutch tensed. It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to kill every single man who had laid a hand on Arthur. 

“Sorry I can’t be of more help,” the sheriff said, pulling Dutch’s focus from the cell. “Stick around a few days if you want to see the hanging.” 

“Good luck with him,” Dutch said, hating his own words as he shook the man’s hand. “Have a good day, sheriff.” 

Dutch heard noises coming from the cell, Arthur shifting against the floor, and it took every ounce of self-control not to turn around. He desperately wanted to meet his eyes, to assure Arthur that he would be right outside, that they would get him home as soon as they could.

But he couldn’t risk it, not with the sheriff watching his every move. So he simply gave a polite nod, stepping outside and down the stairs. The younger lawman was asleep on the porch and Dutch scoffed, slipping to the side of the building next to the small window where Trelawney was already waiting. 

“I’d say we have three days at most,” he said, and Dutch nodded. “How is he?” 

“He’ll live,” he replied, leaning against the wall. “Learned his damn lesson, at least. He knows we’re here, he can hold on for a while longer.” 

Trelawney glanced over his shoulder, eying the still quiet streets before speaking. “Then we wait for Charles. Keep a low profile until we can make a move. We can’t risk doing anything reckless.” 

Dutch opened his mouth to agree, all words dying in his throat when, just audible from the tiny window, a scream rang out through the alleyway. It was unmistakably Arthur, the sudden agony tearing Dutch’s heart in two, dunking him in blind terror. 

As soon as the first sob sounded from inside the cell, Dutch was racing forward, Trelawney grabbing his arm and pulling him back. 

“Mr. Van der Linde--” 

“What the  _ hell  _ are they doing to him?” 

“Be  _ quiet,”  _ Trelawney hissed, tightening his hold. “The entire town is on alert after what happened. We go in without a plan we  _ all  _ end up dead. Surely you understand that?” 

Dutch blinked, shaking with rage and sorrow. “I--” 

“Dutch!” Arthur sobbed, screaming his name, the pain in his voice threatening to send Dutch crashing to his knees. “Dutch! D-- _ Dutch!  _ Please... _ Dutch…”  _

Gradually the screams ceased. The only sound remaining in the alleyway were Arthur’s broken sobs, and Dutch was finding it nearly impossible not to follow suit. 

“Dutch,” Trelawney said. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed just how rattled he was. “Getting ourselves killed won’t help him. We need to wait for Charles.” 

Dutch, terrified and ashamed, managed a silent nod, and Trelawney released his grip. His chest suddenly felt tight with how impossibly grateful he felt. If it weren’t for Trelawney, there would have been no chance of getting to Arthur in time. 

“Go meet up with Charles,” Dutch ordered, voice quiet and weak. “Tell him to hurry the hell up. We can’t wait much longer.” 

Trelawney frowned. “And...you’ll be here by yourself?” 

“I won’t do anything stupid,” Dutch promised. “I’m just going to make sure they don’t...do anything before you get back. I’m not going to let them kill him.” 

Even if he was killed or arrested alongside Arthur, he wouldn’t just sit back and do nothing if the situation grew dire. 

Trelawney, seeming to understand, nodded and turned to leave. “Be careful, Mr. Van der Linde. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

“Thank you, Josiah.” 

He watched him turn the corner, before leaning against the wall beneath the window, sliding to the ground. Dutch was silent, blinking tears from his eyes as he strained to hear Arthur’s breathing, his sobs quieting. 

The noises were awful, each whimper further breaking Dutch’s heart, but it was the one thing he had to assure himself that Arthur was still there, was still holding on for him. 

He sat in silence, staring at the sky, hoping Arthur knew just how close he was. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dutch made it less than half a day before doing something stupid. 

Evening fell, the approaching darkness making him realize he couldn’t just sit in the dark and do nothing, not when Arthur’s breathing had long since gone too silent to hear through the wall. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” 

The group in the saloon he’d scoped out, big, drunk, nasty looking men, turned to Dutch as he spoke, wary and unwelcoming. 

“I don’t mean to cause any trouble,” he continued, smiling pleasantly. “But those men over there are saying some awful things about you. Things about...well, I won’t repeat it in a public place, but I figured you should know. You boys seem far too respectable to do... _ things _ like that.” 

It took all of two minutes for the fight to break out, the men charging over to the second meanest looking group in the bar, Dutch backing up with a triumphant smirk as he watched the confrontation escalate. 

Punches were thrown without warning, tables and chairs being broken and shoved aside as the rest of the bar either joined or fled, chaos rising over fabricated insults, Dutch far enough away to avoid being collateral damage. 

He slipped outside, sticking to the shadows and ducking his head as the sheriff and two lawmen came running, and Dutch made his way across the street to the temporarily unguarded jailhouse. 

He wasn’t going to break Arthur out now, he wasn’t nearly that reckless. But he could at least get inside for a moment, assess the damage, and make sure Arthur was ready to run when the time was right. 

He traversed the porch steps, glancing around before pulling the door open, the screams and threats of the barfight still echoing into the street. He’d have a couple minutes at least. 

Dutch stepped inside, closing the door behind him, the room lit only by a single lantern. He turned to the cell, and his heart stopped. 

The dim lighting made it hard to see, but Arthur’s face was covered in more blood and bruises than he’d realized, deep cuts decorating his chin, jaw, and lip. One of his arms was held limp at his side, twisted unnaturally, clearly broken. 

His other hand was raised, and Dutch suddenly forgot how to breathe when he saw the bloody knife sticking out of his palm, pinning Arthur to the wall. 

Dutch wasn’t sure he’d ever been so angry in his life. His vision went red, his hands shaking, feet frozen to the floor where he stood. 

He hadn’t expected Arthur to be treated like royalty, especially not after what had happened to this town, but  _ this?  _ This was  _ torture.  _ Arthur couldn’t have done anything to deserve this kind of torment. He was defenseless, locked away in a cell, beaten and battered like he was nothing for the sheer amusement of his captors. 

Arthur’s head was hung, his chin on his chest. Dutch almost didn’t hear it, the quiet, agonized whine from the cell, but it was the only noise in the room and Dutch forced himself to shove his rage aside, rushing forward and skidding to a stop beside the steel bars. 

Dutch crouched, lowering himself to Arthur’s level, his heart racing and his throat tight as he tried to get ahold of himself and figure out what he was supposed to do. 

“Arthur.” 

Arthur instantly went tense, eyes closing, breaths speeding up into panicked gasps. Dutch realized he thought another beating was coming. 

“No, Arthur, it’s me. It’s just me, alright? Can you open your eyes? Look at me, son, come on.” 

It was slow, Dutch painfully aware of every precious second passing them by. But Arthur was gradually coming back to the world, blinking, his eyes watery and red. He furrowed his brow, seeming to take a moment to focus on what was in front of him. 

“D--Dutch?” 

His voice was shaky, hesitant, like he was afraid of getting his hopes up. But it was the best noise Dutch had heard all day. A part of him had been terrified Arthur wouldn’t be able to recognize him.

“It’s me,” he assured. “It’s me, Arthur. You, uh...you really pissed someone off this time, huh?” 

It was a massive understatement, and Dutch immediately regretted the words, Arthur looking like he was struggling to latch onto the voice. He shifted against the wall he was pinned to, the innocent gesture accidentally moving his impaled hand. 

He screamed before Dutch had time to register what had happened, Arthur’s eyes wide and watery as he kicked out uselessly against the pain. Dutch clutched at the bars of the cell, the closest he could get, unable to do anything to help. 

“Arthur!” Dutch cried, terrified of someone outside hearing. Arthur’s shredded hand was spasming, his clearly broken fingers twitching, and Dutch couldn’t even imagine how much pain he was in. “God, just--just try not to move, ok? Don’t move Arthur, please. I know it hurts but try to calm down. Focus on me.” 

Arthur’s eyes locked onto his, Dutch gripping the bars of the cell until his knuckles turned white, watching as the tortured man gradually fell still, breathing quick and heavy. 

“Dutch?” Arthur asked again, breathless and exhausted and Dutch nodded, cursing the wall between them. “You...you’re still here…”

“Of course I am,” Dutch said, pressing himself closer. “You think I was going to leave without you?” 

Dutch hadn’t meant for the question to be genuine, and he hadn’t expected to provoke an answer. But Arthur’s eyes suddenly dropped to the floor, ashamed, his bottom lip quivering. 

“Oh, Arthur--” 

“Sorry,” Arthur said, voice quiet and shaking. “S-sorry, I thought...I Should’ve--” 

“No, no, it’s ok, Arthur,” Dutch promised, chest aching. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault, I shouldn’t have let you go in the first place.” 

Arthur still wouldn’t meet his gaze, and Dutch swallowed, realizing his words were probably only making Arthur feel worse, serving as just another painful reminder to what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. They could dwell on the past later, place blames when Arthur was safe. 

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Dutch promised, hating what had to be said next. “Just, uh...just not quite yet, alright?” 

Arthur head finally snapped up at the words, eliciting a quiet whimper, and Dutch wondered how many more injuries there were that he couldn’t see. 

The noise from across the street was quieting and Dutch’s heart sank, knowing he needed to act fast. 

“Soon, Arthur,” he vowed. “Soon, I swear to god. Hold on just a little bit longer for me. Alright?” 

Arthur blinked, the fear and confusion in his eyes making Dutch feel sick to his stomach. “Dutch--” 

“I am  _ not  _ leaving you,” Dutch said firmly. He stood, freezing when Arthur, in a desperate panic, tried to move again. His breathing became labored, yelling against the pain of his battered body rendering him helpless. “Just a little longer, Arthur. We’ll get you out as soon as we can.” 

“Dutch  _ please _ .” Arthur was begging, seeing nothing but abandonment for the second time that day. “I-I’m...I’m sorry for what I said, I-I didn’t--I didn't mean it, we--” 

“Oh,  _ god  _ Arthur.” Dutch was rushing back to the cell, aware he didn’t have any time, refusing to let Arthur think Dutch was leaving by choice. “No, no, no, this has  _ nothing  _ to do with that. I’m right outside, Arthur, I’m doing everything I can. I just need more time. Please, Arthur, just hang on.” 

He stepped away from the cell, Arthur still watching him, breaths quick and panicked. Dutch forced himself to look away, backing up towards the door.

“Dutch--” 

“Arthur I have to  _ go.”  _ It was said with more force than necessary, and Dutch hated himself for that, but he could hear the men approaching from around the corner. If he was spotted, they would both hang. “I’m so sorry. But I’ll be back. I won't leave you, I promise.” 

Knowing he couldn’t spare another second if he still wanted a chance to save Arthur, Dutch pulled open the jailhouse door and slipped outside. His heart felt heavy and cold, his mind numb and blank as he closed the door behind him and disappeared back down the alleyway. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

_ “I won’t leave you, I promise.”  _

Arthur couldn’t fall asleep, couldn’t dream, but he still wasn’t sure if what he had seen was real or some cruel hallucination that was just piling onto his torture. 

He had thought Dutch had been there, so close both times he had opened his eyes, only for the older man to turn his back and leave him behind. Why would Dutch risk getting to Arthur just to abandon him again? Why wouldn’t he  _ help  _ him? 

His chest suddenly felt tight at the new realization. Why  _ would  _ Dutch help him? After all the things he’d done, after what he’d said to Dutch before blatantly ignoring him and getting himself into this, this was exactly what Arthur deserved. The sheriff was right, nobody was going save him. 

He was pulled from his spiraling thoughts by a sudden kick to the face, the boot digging into his cuts and sending his already aching head slamming against the wall. It jostled both of his useless arms and Arthur groaned, fighting back a sob. 

“You’re pathetic,” the sheriff sneered, once again standing in the blood-stained cell. If Arthur had the strength, he would have nodded. Dutch had said the same thing. 

The jailhouse was decorated in shadows, sunlight filtering in through the window as quiet noises from the outside town began to fill the heavy air. Dutch, or what his mind believed had been Dutch, had come in the dark, leaving him to sit and think for the rest of the night. To feel sorry for himself. If Dutch were here, he’d be so disappointed in Arthur for breaking so easily. 

But right now, and maybe for the first time, he didn’t  _ care.  _ It didn’t matter how ashamed or embarrassed Dutch would be of him, because it  _ hurt.  _ He couldn’t remember being hurt like this before, the sharp lingering pains throughout his body, the sheriff refusing to do anything but slowly make it worse each time. 

Arthur just wanted the knife out of his hand. He might be able to take the rest if the sheriff would just pull the blade out of his skin, the bones of his impaled hand already crushed and broken from the merciless boots of the long gone bounty hunters. 

He would have given anything for the constant pain to let up for just one second, the smallest of movements creating a new wave of agony that brought tears to his eyes no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

A dark, traitorous part of his mind wondered if he would give up his family to make the pain stop. The family that had left him behind. 

He told himself no, that even if they gave up on him he wouldn't give up on them. He still loved them, would still die for them, even if he had become nothing but another casualty. 

But the pain kept nagging at him, dragging him further along, haunting him with the promise of sleep he couldn’t reach. The bloody blade reminded him of his uselessness and Arthur whimpered, the shame somehow more painful than the physical torment. 

But nobody was asking him questions anyway. The sheriff didn’t care what he knew, he just wanted Arthur to suffer. Wanted Arthur to feel pain for what he’d done. He didn’t think he’d ever met a man who took so much pleasure from being so cruel. 

There was suddenly pressure against the knife handle, the sheriff slowly rotating it where it was thrust into the wall. Arthur was screaming before he could help himself, the small movements of the blade further tearing at his skin. 

He kicked out on instinct, the sheriff out of the way of his struggles, Arthur’s boots scraping uselessly against the floor when the lawman squeezed his raised wrist, just making his cries louder. 

“Scream all you want, Mr. Morgan,” the sheriff taunted, Arthur’s throat dry and his voice hoarse. “It’s just about time for you to swing. Some backup just got brought in, so the streets are cleared until the hanging, don’t you worry. The only people who can hear you want you dead just as much as I do.” 

His crushing grip on Arthur’s hand finally came undone, Arthur’s screams dying down to another whimper. He couldn’t stop shaking, no matter how badly it pulled at his bruised body. 

“You were screaming a name earlier,” the sheriff mused. Arthur just watched him coldly. “Dutch Van der Linde. You think he’s gonna save you?” 

He didn’t. He was long past hoping. But hearing the man say Dutch’s name filled Arthur with uneasy dread. “I...I won’t tell you--” 

“I ain’t asking,” the man said. “Someone’ll get him eventually. That’ll be some other lucky town’s hanging. All I care about is you, Morgan. You know, I ain’t even supposed to  _ be  _ sheriff. But you-- _ ”  _ There was a hand on his face, shoving his head against the wall, Arthur’s breath hitching in his throat. “Killed  _ everyone.”  _

The sheriff held Arthur’s jaw tightly, his nails digging into the knife cuts. He tasted blood, tensing against the sheriff’s hold, in no position to defend himself. 

“Don’t--” 

“You don’t  _ beg,  _ Morgan. They didn’t get to beg. Nobody saved them, and nobody’s going to save you. They gave you to me, they  _ left  _ you. Because you deserve to die like this. Alone and afraid.”

Arthur whimpered again, the words draining away what little energy he’d had left. The sheriff was shaking with rage and Arthur was sure his hold was tight enough to shatter his already sore jaw. 

He tried to twist his head away, his shaking suddenly prompted by fear rather than pain, the sheriff responding by squeezing Arthur’s cut-up jaw until he cried out. If the man insisted on another beating, Arthur wasn’t sure he would make it to his hanging. 

And then there was a noise from outside, Arthur barely able to hear it over the sound of his own torment, but the hand on his face was gone, Arthur gasping for breath as the man stood. 

It took a few seconds for his scattered brain to be able to identify the noise as a gunshot, followed quickly by furious yells of men outside the doors. 

Two more shots made him jump, pulling at his pinned hand and broken bones. He cried out again, forcing himself to choke down the pathetic noises when there was a gun suddenly pointed at his head. 

“Not one word,” the sheriff snarled, slipping out of the cell. “Understand me?” 

Arthur nodded as best he could, watching as the sheriff ran to the window and peeked out, shoulders tensing at whatever he was seeing. 

The gunfire was continuing, getting closer. There were yells and swearing, threats and curses, and Arthur, as furiously as he was telling himself not to get his hopes up, could have sworn that was Dutch’s voice. 

The sheriff straightened, pressed himself against the wall beside the door, and Arthur held his breath when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, the gunshots growing quieter. 

It all happened in a split second, the door flying open as Charles burst into the room, easily recognizable despite the bandana around his face, shotgun raised. Arthur’s shock and relief quickly morphed into fear when their eyes met, Charles dropping his guard as his eyes widened in horror. 

Charles wasn’t one to get distracted, was never one to falter, but apparently seeing Arthur in a state like this was enough to make him pause. 

“Charles!” 

The other man easily registered the warning in Arthur’s voice, spinning around to face the threat he’d missed. But the split second mistake had been all the sheriff needed, already swinging his gun at Charles, the barrel slamming into his temple and sending him crashing to the floor in a crumpled heap. 

It wasn’t a severe hit, and knowing Charles, he wouldn’t be out for long. But it left Arthur alone with the sheriff once again, the older man charging back to the cell door. 

Arthur had seen that look in a man before, uncontrollable anger and hatred, all fueled by the intent and ability to hurt, to inflict pain. He’d seen it in his own father more often than he liked to think about. The look would always be directed at him, Lyle Morgan charging towards his own son, dripping with drunken rage.

He’d wound up seeing the same look in Mr. Gillis, the cruelness thrown at his own children without guilt, Arthur forced to succumb to the same treatment once again. 

Dutch had worn the same look, Arthur seeing it often after meeting the older man. But for the first time, it was never directed towards him. Dutch had found him, saved him, the first man with the intent to protect rather than hurt. 

The cell door opened and Arthur, doing all he could to temporarily push his pain to the back of his mind, watched him enter with newfound strength. 

Men like this were the people Dutch had been protecting him from since he was a boy. Men who saw him as nothing but a worthless criminal, as less than human, as someone who deserved to die. 

He’d saved him, over and over again, and cruel words between them wouldn't change that. Arthur hadn’t been left behind. Dutch was still here. 

He leaned his head back, his cracked and bruised ribs protesting every little movement, and sucked in a breath. 

_ “Dutch!!”  _ It hurt, Arthur not even sure if anyone outside would even be able to hear him. But it was the only thing he could think of to do. He needed Dutch to know he hadn't given up on him. So he kept screaming. “Dutch!  _ Dutch _ ! D--” 

He was forcefully cut off by the sheriff’s gloved hand pressed over his mouth, pushing him against the wall. But Arthur didn’t stop, screaming furiously into the man’s palm, the only way he could fight against the man that had come so close to breaking him. 

“I thought I  _ told _ you-” there was a hand on the knife handle, and suddenly Arthur’s screams weren’t just cries for help. “Not one goddamn word!” 

And then the knife was being yanked from the wall and Arthur’s muffled screams grew stronger, thrashing uselessly. But the weapon was still in his hand, lodged deep in his palm, and the sheriff didn’t seem inclined to remove it. 

“Come on,” he growled, grabbing Arthur by the shoulder of his broken arm and hoisting him to his unsteady feet. “You ain’t getting out of this that easy.” 

Arthur, refusing to walk forward and not sure he would have the strength if he tried, was dragged and pulled out of the cell, practically shoved out the door and into the first fresh air he’d had in days. 

Moving was agony, his screams echoing in his own ears, still muffled by the sheriff’s grip on his face. His fighting was pointless, doing nothing but injuring himself further. There was gunfire everywhere, men he didn’t recognize crowding the jailhouse. Dutch was nowhere in sight but Arthur, determined to keep holding on, knew he was there. 

“Get him out of here!” one of the men on the porch shouted, Arthur vaguely aware they were talking about him. “Go! We’ll deal with the rest!” 

Arthur felt a flash of panic, wondering how many men Dutch had brought, wondering if his family had a chance, if he’d even be alive long enough to find out. 

He was suddenly being shoved forward, once again thrown into the back of a wagon. The doors slammed shut behind him, trapping him in silence as he cried out, falling against his broken arm. 

The town outside him was muffled, gunshots still ringing clear, voices indistinguishable. The wagon started forward, the horses screaming nearby, and Arthur once again fell forward, thrown like a ragdoll. 

He was too tired to scream again, the pain rendering him immobile as he fell into a semi-conscious state of agony. 

  
  
  
  


Dutch hadn’t planned on leaving the jailhouse alley for anything, even if he had to stand there, wide awake, all night long. Charles and Trelawney couldn’t be too far away by now, but if Arthur screamed one more time Dutch was going to take his chances. 

But at dawn, when the first streaks of pale sunlight began to peak up from behind the hills, a wagon rode into Strawberry, hitching the horses by the window, three more armed lawmen entering the jailhouse. 

A part of Dutch hoped the sheriff would be reprimanded for treating a prisoner so horribly, but he knew it was just wishful thinking. They either wouldn’t care at all, or the man would make up some story about how Arthur had somehow deserved the torture. 

He’d still wanted to stay, terrified the other lawmen would take their pent up anger out on Arthur. 

But the men had begun to clear the street, ordering early morning civilians to steer clear of the jail, and Dutch had no choice but to obey, keeping his head low. Any suspicions he raised would only put Arthur’s life in more danger.

So he’d sat in the quiet saloon, unable to bring himself to eat or drink, not while Arthur was wasting away in a cell across the street, just out of his reach. 

Dutch knew he should have brought more men. He’d underestimated Strawberry, knowing the tiny town had been hit hard. They were still low on numbers, but the reinforcements would make getting Arthur out unscathed more difficult than he’d planned. He and Charles, even with Trelawney’s help, might not be enough. 

But there wasn’t enough time to gather up anyone else. The town wanted Arthur to hang for the actions Dutch had forced him to take, and he was more than willing to put himself in danger to ensure it didn’t end like this. 

Charles and Trelawney rode through the gates in the early afternoon, Dutch abandoning his spot at the bar to meet them, grim and anxious. Charles wasn’t even trying to hide his worry, his shoulders tense and fingers twitching, and Dutch was at least glad to know he wasn’t the only one.

“Arthur’s here?” Charles asked, keeping his voice low as he hitched his horse. Trelawney didn’t dismount, warily watching Dutch from his saddle. 

“He’s here,” Dutch said, the mental image of what he’d found in that cell making him shiver. “He doesn’t have much longer. We need to act now.”

“Then let’s go.” Charles took his shotgun from his saddle, not seeming to care who saw. Dutch smiled, brushing his black coat aside to feel for his own weapons. They didn't have time to go in quietly, and he doubted it would have been worth the effort had they tried. 

“I assume you gentlemen can handle it from here?” 

Dutch nodded, briefly putting his adrenaline on hold to address the man still on the horse. “Get yourself somewhere safe, Trelawney. Thank you. For...all of this. We owe you.” 

Trelawney ducked his head, still calm and collected, but his apprehension was obvious. He pulled at his horse’s reins, turning to the town’s gates. 

“I’ll see you two back at camp,” Trelawney said. “I...hope Arthur is with you when you return.” 

“He will be,” Charles promised before Dutch could respond, but he nodded nonetheless. They weren’t giving up.

“Good luck, gentlemen.” Trelawney kicked his horse, disappearing through the gates in a cloud of dust, riding to safety across the grassy hills. 

“They brought in reinforcements this morning,” Dutch warned, the two of them making their way down the street. “I’ve counted six.” 

“I think we can manage,” Charles said, angry and determined. “And Arthur? Is he ok to run if we need him to?” 

Dutch shook his head, stomach twisting. “No, he’s...he’s been…” he trailed off, unable to find the words to explain, but the other man nodded. 

“I understand,” Charles said, and Dutch let out a relieved sigh. The less detail he had to go into the better. “I can get him when the time’s right. If you want.” 

“Be careful with him,” Dutch warned. “He’s in a lot of pain, I’m not sure how aware he’ll be. If you see the sheriff, make sure he dies slow.”

Charles nodded again, knowing better than to question, and they slowed when the jailhouse finally came into view. Three men lounged on the porch, two more at the side of the building. The sheriff was nowhere to be seen, and Dutch did all he could to control the rage threatening to bubble over the surface. 

“Hey!” One of them called out, and Dutch met Charles's awaiting eyes with a small nod. “What do you boys want?” 

He had barely finished his sentence before Charles was firing, the bullet hitting the man in the forehead, everyone rushing to cover as Dutch started shooting. 

The whole thing was a blur, yells and screams came from the unsuspecting civilians down the street, and Dutch could only hope they were smart enough to stay where they were and not try to intervene. They’d all seen what happened last time.  

He almost felt bad, watching as the lawmen he’d seen sleeping on the porch fell to the ground, a bullet in his gut. Strawberry had already gone through one massive shooting, and they were probably killing off what little protection the small town had left. 

But then he remembered Arthur, pinned to the wall like a piece of meat, left to bleed and suffer and think no one was coming for him. And suddenly all Dutch could think about was shedding the blood of each and every one of them. Everyone who had touched Arthur, hurt him, everyone who had just looked the other way and let it happen. 

The porch was empty for the moment, the remaining lawmen spreading out through the street, and Dutch wasted no time seizing the opportunity. 

“Go!” he called to Charles, the younger man already scanning the street for the safest path. “Get Arthur out of there! I’ll cover you!” 

Charles didn’t hesitate, leaving behind the safety of his cover to dash across the street, making it up the porch steps while Dutch forced himself to keep his eyes trained on the men shooting. 

As soon as Charles disappeared inside the jailhouse, Dutch found it nearly impossible to focus on what he was doing. Even as another lawman fell to the ground, dead before he hit the dirt, Dutch felt his uneasiness rising. 

Charles was taking too long. As sickening as it was to think about what removing Arthur from the cell would be like, it had to be done, and they didn’t have time to take it slow. 

The sheriff was still out of sight, and Dutch suddenly wondered if Charles would even be able to get the cell open. But even if there was no available key, they both knew how to pick locks. The three of them should already be moving to the horses by now. 

And then, just audible through the gunfire and closed doors, Dutch heard it. A pained, panicked, desperate scream from inside the jailhouse. 

_ “Dutch!!”  _

It was Arthur, scared but stubborn, still holding on, still alive. Something had gone wrong, he needed help, but he knew Dutch was here. 

“Arthur!” he yelled, voice drowned out by his own firing gun. He was rushing forward, his bullet hitting one of the last men in the leg, 

It was far from a lethal hit, the misfire proving to be hazardous when Dutch suddenly faltered, white-hot pain shooting through his shoulder as he stumbled, just managing to make it to cover behind the stairs as more shots rang out. 

He gritted his teeth against the pain, unfortunately having enough experience with gunshot wounds to know it wasn’t anywhere close to killing him, the bullet missing his bone and going straight through his skin. 

But it would slow him down, a setback Dutch couldn’t afford when he had no idea what they were doing to Arthur, and no idea where Charles was. 

But he couldn’t move, the slim cover the only thing keeping him from the endless onslaught of bullets. He could only clutch his gun and wait for an opening, holding his breath when the jailhouse door was flung open. 

“Get him out of here!” one of the men yelled, alarmingly close. Dutch’s heart sank when he heard muffled screaming, Arthur being dragged farther and farther away while Dutch was once again powerless to help. So close and yet still out of reach.

He wasn’t given an opportunity to act, to even see what was happening, the screams eventually fading and leaving Dutch in a panicked uncertainty. He kept firing blindly, desperate to get to Charles and Arthur before it was too late. 

There were suddenly more footsteps on the jailhouse porch and Dutch tensed as more shots rang out, the street suddenly falling eerily silent.

“You alright?” 

It was Charles's voice, scared and urgent above him, and Dutch let out a breath as he scrambled to his feet, scanning the now empty street before slipping his guns back into their holsters, hissing at the pull of his injured shoulder. But his anger was far more powerful than his discomfort.

“Goddammit!” 

His own wound was barely registering, his pain shoved aside, terror and rage taking over as the weight of what he had allowed to happen hit full force, sinking in like a punch to the gut. 

Dutch raced up the stairs, heart pounding against his ribs, shoving past Charles to burst into the jailhouse, the building as quiet and empty as the deserted streets. 

“Dutch…” 

He barely heard Charles’s voice, frozen in place, cold dread piling up until he couldn’t breathe. The cell door was left open, red blood staining the ground in a line to the door. Everything was silent, the wagon once hitched by the window nowhere in sight, and he knew they’d been too late.  

Arthur was gone. 


	6. Chapter 6

The sheriff wasn’t doing Arthur any favors by driving fast. He could feel every little movement of the wagon in his broken body, his shattered ribs grinding together as he was continuously tossed throughout the cart, his arm feeling like someone had slowly burned off every little piece of skin. 

The careless movements had done nothing but push the knife deeper into his palm, his hand soaked with fresh blood. He felt tears come to his eyes once again, but he did everything he could to push them back. 

Dutch had come for him. He and Charles had been there, they’d been so close, and they’d done everything they could. Even if they couldn’t save him, even if this was still how things were going to end, they had still tried. He hadn’t been left behind. 

The wagon suddenly veered to the side and Arthur flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as pain shot through his body, leaving him shaking and gasping for breath. The panicked screams of horses rang out, just audible through the wagon’s walls, and Arthur felt a spark of hope in his chest. 

It was short-lived, and suddenly Arthur was falling, the wagon tipping over and crashing into the dirt, leaving him to pitch forward and slam against the wall with a weak cry. 

The fall had bent the wagon doors, letting in rays on sunlight promising freedom, the doors open just enough for Arthur to crawl through. 

But he still couldn’t move, already in too much agony to even try pulling himself forward. There were heavy footsteps outside the wagon, and Arthur found himself silently begging for it to be Dutch. His fragile hopes were quickly shattered when a hand grabbed him by the back of the shirt, roughly dragging him into the sunlight. 

“--son of a  _ bitch!”  _

The sheriff had been screaming, though Arthur hadn’t even heard the furious words until he was being thrown forward, landing hard on his side with a startled yelp. The handle of the knife hit the ground, the blade digging deeper into his hand. 

He just managed to hold back a scream, forcing himself to lift his head up off the grass. With a groan, he smiled up at the sheriff looming above him. The man might have won, but Arthur wasn’t going to allow him the satisfaction of breaking him completely. 

“What’s the matter, sheriff?” he asked, tasting blood in his mouth. “They come for me after all?” 

The beating would have come whether he opened his mouth or not, but at least this way he could see it coming. Arthur only tensed, silent as a boot slammed against his chest, knocking the wind out of him. But he wasn’t defenseless, not completely, and he wasn’t going to let this man beat him to death without a fight. 

His arms were still useless but with strength he shouldn’t have still had, he started kicking, finally having the space to move now that he wasn’t pinned to the wall. Each movement still pulled ruthlessly at the rest of his injuries, but the unbearable pain was only letting him fight harder. 

He hit the sheriff in the leg, in the chest, the third kick finding his face, and Arthur was almost sure he heard a crack from the man’s jaw. 

But he didn’t stand a chance. He was still weak and bruised and battered and it took almost no effort for the sheriff to overpower him. 

A blow to his broken arm made Arthur scream again, his cry quickly cut off by a vicious punch to his face, followed by another, and another, and another. Blood was running down his face, his cuts reopened, kicks to the sheriff’s stomach doing nothing to slow him down. 

His fight was slowing, movements becoming sluggish, the pain drowning him like an ocean. Arthur spit out blood, his last-ditch effort doing nothing to deter the assault. He could only lay there and take the last few moments of torture, pinned under the man’s weight. 

“This how you treat your prisoners, sheriff?” 

It took Arthur a moment to register that the beating had stopped, another to realize that he and his captor were no longer alone in the field. He had to strain to hear over his own wheezes, struggling to pull in air. But the voice, although vaguely familiar, wasn’t the one he’d been hoping for. 

“Jesus, look at him. And you thought  _ we  _ beat the shit out of him?” 

It was the bounty hunters, the men that had worked with Mr. Gillis, their voices as sinister and taunting as when they had beaten him, broken his arm and locked him in that cell. It took everything he had not to whimper from the new rush of fear. 

“What’re you boys doing out here?” one of them asked, speaking casually like they were old friends. “Ain’t Mr. Morgan supposed to be heading to the gallows?” 

The sheriff stood, bloody hands still curled into fists, clearly irritated at being interrupted. “Someone came for him. You weren’t there, we had to run.” 

“Hey, we made our money.” The bounty hunter who seemed to be the leader took a step forward, and Arthur tensed automatically. “Did  _ our  _ job. Just came back to see the hanging. I thought  _ your  _ job was to hang the men who deserve hanging.” 

Arthur watched as the sheriff went red, stepping away from Arthur to get in the man’s face. He didn't have the strength to use the opportunity as an escape attempt, doubting he would have gotten very far if he’d tried. 

“That’s what I’m  _ doing,”  _ the sheriff insisted. The bounty hunter just smirked. 

“Don’t look like it,” he said. “If you ain’t even gonna kill him, we might as well just take him back.” 

Arthur furrowed his brow, trying to understand what the hell was happening, almost convinced the blood loss had caused him to hallucinate. Maybe he was still in that cell after all. But he was fairly certain it was real, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. 

“I’m killing him,” the sheriff snarled, and suddenly the man’s gun was being pointed at Arthur’s face. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable. “Nobody kills him but me, understand? Now you boys can just--” 

There was a gunshot and Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, preparing himself for the agony that would lead him into his final moments of darkness. 

But there was no pain, nothing adding to his already constant misery, and Arthur peeled his eyes open just in time to see the bounty hunter fire a second shot into the sheriff’s chest, a third bullet splitting through his skull. There was a horrible wheeze as Arthur’s torturer fell limply to the ground, a bloody mess seeping into the dirt. 

He could only lay there, stunned and shaking, as the bounty hunter slipped his gun into his belt and spat at the sheriff’s nearly unrecognizable corpse. 

“Pathetic,” he snarled, stepping around the body. Arthur couldn’t stop his trembling as the man came closer, crouching down to his level. “Who beats a defenseless prisoner when they’ve got nothing to gain?” 

Arthur held his steely gaze, aware that he must not look much different than the dead man a few paces away. He was a mess, soaked in his own blood, littered with bruises and broken bones. 

The bounty hunter was scanning him, like he was assessing the damage, like he hadn’t done most of it in the first place. Arthur’s heart sped up when the man’s eyes landed on his impaled hand, still twitching and spasming. 

“Well, look at that,” the bounty hunter mused. Arthur flinched when he took hold of his wrist, holding it up so he could get a clear look at the bloody blade through his skin. The sight made Arthur sick to his stomach, the pain somehow worsening. “He was an angry little bastard, huh?” 

Arthur didn’t respond, determined not to lose it in front of this man, but it was becoming harder and harder to hold back. He watched, too weak to pull away as the bounty hunter moved his own hand to wrap around the knife handle. 

“I bet you want this out, don’t you?” His tone was patronizing, like he was talking to a terrified child, but at this point Arthur didn’t care. He just wanted help, no matter who it was from, desperate for any relief. “Tell you what, Morgan. You tell me where I can find Dutch Van der Linde, and I’ll help you out.”

And just like that, any hope he had vanished, the dismay sinking in and leaving him weightless with dread. He hadn’t been saved, he’d just been captured all over again by more men who wanted him dead. Wanted to hurt him. He would be beaten all over again. 

He wanted the pain to stop, wanted the men to leave him alone, but he wouldn’t give up Dutch. He couldn’t. Dutch had saved him before, and even if he'd failed he’d done everything he could to save him again. 

He narrowed his eyes at the bounty hunter, clenching his jaw until it hurt to keep his tears from flowing. The bounty hunter sighed and turned back to his men. 

“It was worth a shot,” he said, hardly sounding surprised. “I say we take him to Valentine to collect a second bounty. I doubt anyone in Strawberry will notice.” 

“Can he survive that long?” one of them asked, and Arthur already knew the answer was no. 

“Doesn’t look like it,” the head bounty hunter said, dismissive, like Arthur was nothing more than an animal they found on the side of the road. “Any of you boys got rope?” 

They were moving and talking around him, but Arthur almost couldn’t hear anything over the frantic pounding of his own increasing heartbeat. 

He had just begun to come to terms with the fact that he would die, beaten to death on the side of the road, left lifeless and bloody for his family to find. But knowing he wouldn’t be hanged had almost been a consolation, that small bit of comfort now being ripped away. 

“It’ll be over soon, Morgan,” the bounty hunter said, suddenly crouched in front of him. He held a coil of rope, one end being thrown over the branch of the closest tree by the men, the other tied into a makeshift noose. “You’re going to make us very rich, sir. And if it makes you feel better, that old coward ain’t getting a damn cent.” 

The mention of Mr. Gillis, the man stupid enough to run away and trust his money with a bunch of bounty hunters, only made him more angry. He hoped that family starved. He hoped they had to sell everything they owned, had to live on the street begging for food like he had done for so many years. 

But deep down, beneath the waves of agony and anger, he knew it wasn’t true. He didn't want that for Mary. No matter how much he hated her, how much he regretted meeting her, letting her control him, Arthur wanted her to be ok. 

But most of all, he didn’t want anyone to find him like this. Beaten and broken, his neck snapped, slung across the back of some bounty hunter’s horse. Dutch would blame himself, they all would, and it would be Arthur’s fault. He was stupid enough to get into this mess in the first place, to put everyone else in danger to save him, and now he was paying for it. 

If he couldn’t clearly imagine Dutch’s grief, he might have agreed with the sheriff that he deserved this. 

The noose was suddenly being shoved over his head, Arthur’s pitiful struggles doing nothing to stop the man from tightening the rope around his throat. When it was done, the man turned to him with a smile. 

“This ain’t gonna be pleasant,” he warned, Arthur watching silently. “So, I’ll do you a favor, Morgan.” 

Before Arthur could react the man’s hand was wrapped around the knife handle and pulling up, the blade coming out of Arthur’s skin with a sickening hiss, blood pooling around the open wound. Arthur screamed before he could stop himself, pulling his hand to his chest, no longer able to stop the whimpers being dragged from him. 

“I think this is goodbye, Arthur Morgan,” the bounty hunter said, and the rope tightened uncomfortably. “Try not to struggle.” 

And then Arthur was being yanked backwards by his neck, the force of the pull enough to push him on his back as he was dragged forward, the rest of the men pulling on the rope as he was brought closer and closer to the tree. 

As much as it hurt, he tried to fight back, doing all he could to stay as close to the rope as he could and pull in as much air as possible. But the rope was pulling harder, tighter, and with one final yank his feet left the ground and his air was cut off. 

He would have preferred the gallows. A proper noose would have granted him the mercy of snapping his neck the second his feet left the ground, his death over in a heartbeat. 

But being slowly dragged upwards, dangling in the air as the life was slowly squeezed out of him might have been the worst torture he’d endured. He could feel his body failing, what little strength he had left fading away. 

He wanted to scream, the pain worse than any knife, his frantic kicks and thrashes pulling at his abused body. His own gasps were the only thing he could hear, pained and desperate, gradually growing quiet. 

Arthur was pulled higher, the panic somehow overpowering the pain. He didn’t want to die. Not like this. Hanging helplessly from his neck, writhing and struggling as he faded slowly, surrounded by men that saw him as nothing more than an item to sell. He’d leave behind nothing. Nothing but a man ridden with guilt, likely to get himself killed in his rage and sorrow. 

And then there was a noise, just audible over his dying breaths, and suddenly he was falling. Air rushed into his lungs, pain shooting through his body as he hit the ground, coughing and wheezing, having no energy to try and sit up. 

Arthur could hear gunshots all around him, panicked yells from familiar voices, and the relief almost threatened to suffocate him all over again. The fight died down fast, the clearing growing silent, and Arthur tried not to flinch when he heard approaching boots. 

He raised his head, blinking to clear his hazy vision. His throat was throbbing, the new pain somehow worse than the rest of the torture he’d endured. 

“Dutch--” he tried, breaking off with an awful wheeze. He couldn’t talk around the pain, around the rest of the rope still wrapped around his neck, but he realized quickly that it didn’t matter. 

Arthur was grabbed by the collar of his shirt and hoisted roughly to his feet, his cry of pain ignored, and he knew in an instant that it wasn’t Dutch. 

“Hold still,” the head bounty hunter said in his ear. Arthur tensed when the cold blade, the one that had been in his hand, was suddenly pressed against his throat. “Van der Linde? It’s good to finally meet you, sir.” 

Arthur blinked, squinting to focus on what was happening in front of him. 

Two of the bounty hunters were dead, Charles standing over them. He spun around, gun raised, going rigid when he saw Arthur. 

The third bounty hunter was still alive, and Arthur found himself smiling through his pain when he saw Dutch standing over him, both his pistols in his hands. His head snapped up at the man’s voice, eyes widening. 

“Let my partner go,” the bounty hunter warned, tightening his grip on the knife. “And maybe we can work something out.” 

Dutch was immediately taking a step back, eyes trained on the knife, raising his hands as his fingers left the triggers. Charles did the same, face expressionless. 

“Drop your weapons,” the man ordered, and they obeyed without question, tossing their guns into the grass. The third bounty hunter scrambled to his feet, aiming his gun at Dutch’s chest. 

“Let him go,” Dutch said, and Arthur wondered if anyone who wasn’t listening for it heard the wavering of his voice. “Please. He’s been through enough.” 

“You think so?” the man challenged. “The way I see it, sir, I’m just doing my duty. I’m bringing in a murderer and a thief. And I should be doing the same to you.” 

“You’ve  _ tortured  _ a man while he’s defenseless and hurting.”

“That was the sheriff,” the bounty hunter shot back. “I’m just trying to make a decent bit of money. I’m sure you can understand that.” 

Arthur didn’t have the strength to stand by himself, and he felt himself slipping in the man’s grasp. 

There was a hand around his broken arm, yanking him back up and holding him in place. He cried out again, forcing himself to fall silent when the knife pressed deeper into his bruised skin. 

“Let him go,” Dutch spoke slow, dangerous, shaking with barely controlled rage. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed, not sure how much more pain he could take. He just wanted it to be over. 

“He’s going to die, Mr. Van der Linde,” the man said. “Either I’ll kill him or the law will. You leave us alone, and I’ll save you for another day.” 

“You leave him alone,” Dutch snarled. “Or this ends with the two of you dead alongside your friends.” 

The bounty hunter laughed, the sudden movements making Arthur whimper. “You want to  _ watch  _ him die? Is that it? Because I can arrange that.” 

Before Dutch could respond another shot rang out, Arthur gasping as the hold on his arm finally loosened, blood seeping into his shoulder from the bounty hunter’s head above him. Arthur’s knees buckled and he managed a dazed, stumbling step forward, desperate to get as far away from the man as possible, before falling to the ground on his back. 

He caught sight of the last man aiming his gun, but Charles was faster, slamming into the bounty hunter’s chest and sending him crashing to the ground, easily overpowering him in the grapple for the gun. One last shot rang out, and Arthur let his head fall back as the triumphant silence finally fell. 

“Arthur?” Dutch’s voice was closing in, and Arthur watched as the older man skidded to a stop at his side, dropping to a crouch. The noose was gone in an instant, finally letting Arthur breathe properly. 

Charles was suddenly at his other side, hovering hesitantly. “You alright?” 

He was definitely not alright in the slightest, but he didn’t have the energy to try and tell them that. He was, by some miracle, still alive, and for a while that had been more than he’d dared to hope for. 

“Oh, god Arthur,” Dutch said, hesitant and unsure, not quite sure how to offer comfort. “We’re going to get you some help. Just hang in there.” 

There was suddenly the sound of an approaching horse and Arthur stiffened, but Dutch and Charles didn’t look alarmed. 

“Good lord,” Trelawney’s outraged voice suddenly sounded from above him. “What on earth did they do to him?” 

“We need to get him home,” Dutch said urgently, and Arthur did all he could to stifle a groan, the pain seeming to worsen with each second he laid there. “I don’t want him on a horse. Any chance of getting that wagon to work?” 

“It's wrecked,” Charles said. “The horses are gone.” 

“Then go into town and get another one,” Dutch snapped, Charles already moving from Arthur’s view. “ _ Hurry,  _ Charles. Please. Josiah--” 

“I’ll go with Mr. Smith,” Trelawney said, and Arthur heard Dutch sigh in relief. “We’ll only be a few moments. Keep an eye on him.” 

Dutch nodded, and the thundering of hooves filled the air in seconds, charging back towards Strawberry. Dutch scooted closer and Arthur, purely on instinct, reached out his bloody hand towards him. 

He hissed in pain and Dutch, wise enough not to accept the gesture, flashed Arthur a gentle, reassuring smile. But he was looking more and more horrified with each injury he saw, like he was barely holding it together as they waited. 

“Christ Arthur,” he muttered. “You...Jesus, that doesn’t sound good. You think you can sit up for me? I’ll help you, just be careful.” 

Everything was slowly coming back to him, his head clearing slightly, and he realized what Dutch was referring to. He could breathe again, but each inhale rattled in his chest, his neck still feeling tight and uncomfortable. 

He nodded, wincing when Dutch’s hand grazed his skin, the older man pulling away like he’d been burned. 

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t--where does it hurt?” 

It hurt  _ everywhere.  _ Arthur didn't think there was a single place he hadn't been beaten, the memories of boots and fists making him shiver. Dutch seemed to understand, getting the message even if Arthur was too afraid of a coughing fit to try and talk. 

But he still wanted to sit up, and Dutch was insistent on helping. It was a slow and painful process, Arthur crying out when a particularly bad injury was provoked, but eventually he found himself against Dutch’s chest in the least agonizing position he could manage. 

“Arthur,” Dutch said, struggling to find the words. “I’m...god, I’m so sorry, Arthur.” 

Arthur didn’t respond, his throat and chest tight, but this time it wasn’t from the bruises. He clenched his jaw, determined to hold it together, silently telling himself that he was safe, that the pain would end soon, that he would go home. It was over. 

He hadn’t even realized there were tears streaming down his face until it was too late, his breath hitching in his throat. 

Dutch noticed, of course, and suddenly there was a gentle hand on his forehead. “It’s ok,” he said, calm and soothing, and Arthur’s resolve broke completely. 

He no longer had control, sobbing into Dutch’s shoulder, ignoring the pain it brought to his battered body. Dutch’s hand moved to hold the back of his neck, and Arthur just cried harder, not even given enough time in between sobs to apologize. 

“It’s alright,” Dutch promised again. “Let it out, son. You’re safe now. It’s going to be ok, Arthur. You’re ok.” 

His cries were only growing louder as everything finally came spilling out, leaving Arthur shaking and weak and unable to stop. He felt like a child, pressed up against Dutch’s now soaked and rumpled shirt, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have the energy to be ashamed, and he knew Dutch understood. 

As if in response, Dutch carefully wrapped an arm around Arthur’s back, just gentle enough not to press down on his injuries. They were swaying slowly, the gentle movements helping Arthur control his breathing once again. 

But the tears didn’t slow, and Arthur just leaned into Dutch with no intention of moving. They held each other in a desperate embrace, the weight of the past few days seeming to hit both of them full force. Arthur wondered how he could have ever thought Dutch would leave him behind. 

Arthur’s sobs had finally ceased when Charles and Trelawney brought their stolen wagon back, bringing the horses to a stop in the clearing as the three of them worked on getting Arthur into the back. 

If his breathing was shaky and his face was still wet with tears, no one commented. 

Dutch rode in the back with him, carefully positioning Arthur to once again lean against him, keeping them both as comfortable as possible. Trelawney drove while Charles rode alongside them, keeping watch. 

Arthur was fading in and out, kept awake only by the nagging pain, vaguely aware of someone wrapping up his hand, making him whimper. 

“I’m sorry,” he heard Dutch say. “It’s just me, Arthur. Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re safe now.” 

Dutch was there, he’d gotten him out just like he’d promised. The pain was lessening slightly, everything fading to the back of his mind as he was finally allowed to sleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

Dutch watched Arthur’s chest rise and fall, still struggling to convince himself that the younger man was really here, that he was ok. It had been close, too close, and his hands hadn’t stopped shaking. 

He’d only left the tent once to drag an exhausted Hosea to bed, the older man having been up all night working with an equally worn out Miss Grimshaw to ensure that Arthur would make it, and by the time things had finally settled down they were both practically dead on their feet. 

Dutch had hovered the entire time, unable to do anything to help, heart breaking at each one of Arthur’s cries as his injuries were treated. But he didn’t sound scared. He knew where he was. 

Dutch had never seen so many bruises on one man. Arthur was covered in black and red marks, each one causing him agony at the smallest touch, and Dutch had to force his anger back down. They were dead, everyone who had done this to him., and getting furious all over again wouldn’t do anyone any good. 

They put his arm in a sling, and Dutch was beyond relieved when Hosea assured him that it should begin to heal properly in time. The cuts on his face were carefully cleaned and treated, only one of them by his jaw deep enough to need stitches. 

“We need to keep an eye on that hand,” Miss Grimshaw had said, peeling off the cloth Dutch had haphazardly wrapped around the wound to stop the bleeding. “An infection is the last thing he needs.”

They did all they could, Dutch knowing he had nothing to do but sit back and wait. He’d only get in the way if he tried to help, still frantic and distracted. Arthur kept fading in and out, each waking moment filled with cries and flinches, gradually dying down to pained whimpers at his family’s quiet reassurances. 

“I should stay with him,” Hosea had said when Dutch lead the older man to his bedroll. “He ain’t out of the woods yet, Dutch. I need to--” 

“You need to sleep,” Dutch said, selfishly wanting to do the same, refusing to dwell on the desire. “You did good. You saved his life.” 

“Pretty sure that was you,” Hosea argued gently, but he was relenting, slowing as the two men reached his bed. “That beating...who the hell does that?”

“The last survivor of a mass shootout,” Dutch said bitterly. He wanted nothing more than for the sheriff to still be alive so he could make him feel every second of agony that Arthur had gone through. But in a way, Dutch understood his rage, sympathized with the grief that had driven him over the edge. “They weren’t even asking him questions it was just...some kind of sick revenge for what he and Micah did a couple weeks back.” 

Hosea sucked in a breath, brow furrowing, and Dutch already knew what was coming. “That Micah’s dangerous, Dutch.” 

“I know.” 

“He’s...I know we need as many guns as we can get now, but...I just think he’s more trouble than he’s worth.” 

Dutch sighed. Hosea’s word had always been enough for him, but with Pinkertons still searching for them and Arthur out of commission for at least a few weeks, possibly even months, their situation was growing more and more dire.  “What do you want me to do, Hosea?” 

“I don’t know,” the older man admitted, no fire left in his tired eyes. “I just have a bad feeling. That’s all.” 

“I know,” Dutch said again, not quite sure if he did. “Just...we’ll talk about it later. When things are back to normal.” 

So they’d dropped it, the conversation fading from his mind as soon as Hosea had retreated to his bed, Dutch retreating to the tent and planting himself beside an eerily still Arthur. His face was swollen, the cuts still angry, and Dutch was almost afraid of Arthur waking up, having no doubt the pain would still be beyond unbearable no matter what they did.

But he wouldn’t leave until Arthur was awake again, terrified that if he closed his eyes Arthur will have stopped breathing. 

They’d almost been too late. If Charles hadn’t been there to track down the wagon…

It didn’t matter how many times Miss Grimshaw and Hosea told him Arthur would likely be just fine, that he just needed some time. Dutch couldn’t get the image of Arthur hanging by his neck out of his head. 

His thrashing had already died down by the time Dutch had dismounted, too consumed by fear and rage to understand what he was supposed to do, frozen and useless as his feet hit the ground. 

But Charles, always clear-headed and reliable, was already firing his gun, the bullet finding its way through the rope, and Arthur was falling. 

For a terrifying heartbeat, Dutch thought they were too late, that they had taken just a second too long. But then Arthur was moving, gasping and choking, and Dutch had let himself lose control. Let himself get distracted, once again letting Arthur out of his sight. 

He couldn’t remember ever being that scared. He was so close, the sheriff dead, Arthur alive and just a few paces in front of him, but a single move from the bounty hunter could have torn him away in a second, the knife already stained with Arthur’s blood held dangerously tight against his skin. 

When Arthur had cried out against the brutal tugging of his broken arm, Dutch had been sure he would lose it completely, likely getting everyone in the clearing killed in the process. 

And then another shot had rung out and the bounty hunter was dead, the side of his head split open, and Arthur was left to stumble forward and crash to the ground. Charles had sprung into action as Trelawney, after saving Arthur’s life for the second time, rode forward to offer any assistance he could. 

As soon as the last enemy had hit the ground, Charles immediately gaining the upper hand, Dutch had seen nothing but Arthur, trembling and bleeding on the ground. For the next few moments the world had stopped, keeping Arthur safe and stopping his pain suddenly the only thing that mattered. 

Arthur’s sobs had terrified him, the younger man unable to stop no matter how much it further tortured him. Dutch had only been able to hold him close, constantly worried that his touch might just make things worse, trying to calm Arthur down enough for him to breathe properly. Watching Arthur lean into him, scared and desperate, Dutch had struggled to hold back his own tears. He needed to keep it together, to let Arthur know that everything was ok. 

But in the back of that wagon, as Trelawney got them home as fast as he could, clinging to the barely conscious body leaned against him had been for Dutch’s sake as much as Arthur’s, needing to hear his breathing, as uneven and hoarse as it was. 

Both Charles and Trelawney had warned him against taking him to a doctor, and in the end he’d begrudgingly agreed, knowing it was too great a risk. They may have killed every lawman left in Strawberry, but word could still eventually get to Valentine, leaving them defenseless and trapped in a town filled with lawmen. 

The safest thing to do was to get Arthur home and let him recover in his own bed. Miss Grimshaw had sent Tilly and Karen into town to stock up on medical supplies, and Hosea had herbs and medicine stashed away that he promised would help, but it did little to set Dutch’s worry to rest. 

The pain in his shoulder suddenly spiked, and Dutch absently pressed a hand to the bandage he’d allowed Miss Grimshaw to apply when she’d finished with Arthur. He refused to use up any of the medical supplies they bought, not when he wasn’t the one who so desperately needed it, but now that he had nothing to do but wait the pain was becoming harder to ignore. 

It was another few hours before there was any change. It felt like ages since Miss Grimshaw had checked in, changing the bandage on Arthur’s hand and insisting she did the same to Dutch, grumbling under her breath as she left them both alone again. 

Arthur’s breath suddenly hitched before rapidly speeding up, and Dutch scooted closer to cot as his eyes slowly blinked open. 

“Hey.” He kept his voice soft and quiet, but Arthur flinched, eyes going wide. “It’s me. It’s just me. You’re home, you're safe now. Remember? We got you.” 

Arthur’s eyes met him, much more clear and focused than Dutch had feared they might be. His head fell back against the pillow, body still tense. He slowly raised his arm, gazing at his bandaged hand, expressionless. 

“Does it still hurt?” Dutch asked, aware it was a stupid question even before Arthur nodded, carefully lowering his hand again. “It might take a while but...Miss Grimshaw says as long as it doesn’t get infected it’ll be ok. Hosea’s doing everything he can for you.”

Arthur nodded again, eyes never leaving Dutch. The tent fell silent, and Dutch was suddenly reminded of the last conversation they’d had. Before Arthur looked like he was struggling to stay alive. 

“They dead?” Arthur asked. His voice was weak, shaky, and quiet, a dark line of bruises decorating his neck. The question was apprehensive, almost scared.

“They’re dead,” Dutch promised. “All of them. They’re not going to hurt you anymore, Arthur. You’re safe, I promise.” 

Arthur didn’t respond, his eyes sliding away from Dutch to stare blankly at the top of the tent, his breaths still shallow and uneven. Dutch wanted to reach out, to offer some sort of comfort, but he just clasped his hands together, keeping them in his lap. 

“M’ sorry,” Arthur slurred, like he had something to apologize for. “You were right.” 

Dutch shook his head, the memories of his own vicious words tearing at his heart. “No, I wasn’t. I didn’t mean it, son. Not a single word. You understand me?” 

But Arthur’s eyes were closed, asleep again before he could hear what Dutch so desperately needed him to know. 

  
  
  


“How’s he doing?” 

“He’s--” Dutch stopped himself from saying Arthur was fine, knowing deep down that it would be a lie. “He’s getting better.” 

Arthur was recovering, becoming more and more recognizable each day as the swelling and bruises on his face began to fade. He’d been able to sit up without crying out, his broken and cracked ribs gradually healing. His broken arm would take some time, and his hand was still a concern, but he was healing. As slow of a process as it was, nobody had any doubt that he would survive. 

Arthur was still a long way from being fine, no matter how much he was improving physically. He was closed off, quiet and short-tempered, lashing out at Hosea and Miss Grimshaw when they treated his injuries and insisted he lay still. 

Neither of them seemed to mind, both assuming it was just from the pain and exhaustion. And maybe they were right, maybe it was just Dutch’s overactive mind telling him something was wrong, but it just seemed to be getting worse. He barely even acknowledged Dutch’s presence, the two of them barely talking after what had happened, and Dutch couldn’t help but wonder if his earlier apology had been heard, and simply rejected. 

“He just needs some time,” Charles said, as if reading his mind, snapping him back to reality. “He’s been through a lot.” 

Dutch nodded, knowing he was right, that it wasn’t fair of anyone to expect anything of Arthur for a while. The visible injuries only gave them an idea of what he’d been through during his capture. 

“It’s my fault,” Charles said, and Dutch finally raised his head to look at him. “Back in the jailhouse when I...I saw him and I slipped up. It’s my fault they...that he almost didn’t…” 

“He’d be dead if it wasn’t for you, son,” Dutch said, all too familiar with the guilt Charles was feeling. “Don’t worry about what went wrong. You found him, and we got him back. You did good.”

Charles, briefly looking taken aback, managed a single nod before dropping his gaze to his hands. “Trelawney left this morning.” 

“Of course he did.” Dutch smiled softly, shaking his head. “He’ll be back when we need him. He always is.” 

“If you say so,” Charles muttered. “I didn’t know he could shoot like that.” 

“Neither did I.” 

It had been over two weeks since they’d gotten Arthur back, and even if the days were hectic, Dutch too busy and distracted to express to Trelawny how truly grateful he was, he hoped the other man already knew. It really had come too close. 

“Get some rest, Mr. Smith,” Dutch said, standing from their table in the middle of the quiet camp. The sky was a pale gray, the dawn less than an hour away, but neither he or Charles had been sleeping enough lately to pay much attention to the time. “You look like you need it.” 

Charles just nodded with a quiet sigh, and Dutch turned in the direction of Arthur’s darkened tent. Sooner or later, Arthur would have to talk to him. Whether he liked it or not, they couldn’t spend the rest of their days pretending they were fine. 

He paused and took a breath before pulling back the flap and stepping inside. It took him a moment to register that he was standing inside an empty tent. 

Dutch spun around, heart racing in a sudden rush of panic as he pushed back into the early morning air. He was about to call Arthur’s name, not caring if it woke up the entire camp, voice dying in his throat when he caught sight of him. 

Arthur was sitting on the log overlooking the cliffside, staring blankly at the sparkling water below him, shoulders hunched and head hung low. The panic dissipated in an instant, leaving Dutch exhausted and irritated, stalking across the field. 

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” Dutch demanded, Arthur not even looking up as he approached. “Jesus, can you even walk? You should be in bed.” 

Arthur didn’t respond and Dutch moved to stand in front of him. He hands were in his lap, the one in the sling picking absently at the bandage around his torn palm. He’d always healed remarkably fast, and he did look much better than he had in a while, but it hadn’t been nearly enough time for Dutch to feel comfortable with him walking around by himself.  

“Don’t touch that,” Dutch warned, and Arthur stilled. “Arthur--” 

“I can’t move my hand.” 

“Yeah, no shit,” Dutch said. “Come on. I’ll help you get back to--”

“I don’t  _ need  _ your help, Dutch!” Arthur snapped. The bruises around his neck had almost completely faded, most of the strength returning to his voice. “I’m fine I-I just..just...I can’t...Jesus,  _ look.”  _

He held up his bandaged hand for Dutch to see, shaking and spasming, faint traces of fading bruises just visible around the lining of the bandage. Arthur suddenly hissed in pain, closing his eyes as he held it to his chest. 

“Arthur,” Dutch said, trying to be sympathetic, to reign in his frustration. “It’s only been a couple of weeks. You just need to be patient.” 

“But it’s not getting  _ better,”   _ he argued. “Everything else is healing but I can’t...Dutch, what if it doesn’t...it’s not getting better, Dutch, it’s just…”

He trailed off, sounding more angry than scared, and Dutch just sighed. There was nothing he could say, and he wondered if this was how everyone else felt while he had been worrying. “It’ll be fine, Arthur. It’ll just take some more time.”

“How the hell do you know?” Arthur demanded, the sudden rise in volume catching Dutch off guard. “Miss Grimshaw and Hosea don’t know. I can see it in their faces, they got no damn clue. You can lie to my face all you want, it doesn’t change what happened.” 

“Arthur--” 

“What the hell am I supposed to do with one hand, Dutch?” 

“Arthur, stop shouting.” 

“I’m not shouting!” Arthur shouted, turning back to the cliff’s edge like Dutch wasn’t even there. Their first real conversation in weeks and they were already fighting. “Will you leave me alone? I can make it to my own damn tent by my damn self.” 

“Arthur, will you please--”

“Just  _ leave,  _ Dutch!” 

And here they were again, screaming at each other for no good reason, taking out their stress and exhaustion and fear on what was right in front of them. 

“No, you know what?” Dutch matched Arthur’s volume, furious all over again,  just like he’d been before the younger man had disappeared. “You don’t get to do that, Arthur. You don’t get to throw a tantrum and expect me to walk away and feel like it’s my damn fault you can’t act like an adult!” 

“Christ, I’m not--” 

“You think you’re the only one hurting?” Dutch said, and the cliffside fell silent. “God, Arthur, I know you went through hell and I can’t even imagine but…” 

But he’d had to listen to Arthur’s pain, separated and unable to help, never able to act fast enough. Arthur had thought he wasn’t coming. He’d been on death’s door and their fight, Dutch’s horrible words, had been the last memory he’d had. 

And here he was, selfishly trying to compare his own pain with Arthur’s. To try and make him feel worse. To feel the same guilt Dutch had.

“But what _ ,  _ Dutch?” Arthur pushed. Dutch hadn't even seen him stand, watching him curiously, waiting. 

Dutch just shook his head, all his fight gone just like that. “Nothing. It’s nothing, Arthur. Absolutely nothing. Do whatever the hell you want, I’m done caring.” 

It was a blatant lie, and he was sure the sorrow in his voice gave that much away, Arthur huffing in disbelief as Dutch turned his back. 

“Well, sorry for being such a damn inconvenience,” he muttered, just loud enough for the older man to hear. “I’m sorry I’m so worthless that Mr. Gillis had me beaten and arrested in front of his daughter, who probably didn’t even  _ care.”  _

Dutch spun back around, brow furrowed. “He did  _ what?”  _

“I’m sorry for getting captured at all,” Arthur continued, long past listening. “Sorry you had to come get me and I couldn’t just...just disappear completely like you wanted.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

“You said it yourself,” Arthur said, and he sounded so broken and dejected, no longer angry, and Dutch realized his injuries might not have just been physical. “Hell, maybe they should have just hanged me.” 

“ _ Arthur.”  _ Dutch was in front of him, hands on his shoulders, ignoring the younger man’s wince. Arthur wasn't saying this out of anger, he wasn't trying to make Dutch feel worse. He believed what he was saying. Every single word. They'd been so focused on his bruises and broken bones, nobody had thought to heal the damage they couldn't see. “Shut the hell up.”

“You got shot, Dutch.” 

“So?” he said. “It ain’t the first time and it won’t be the last. I’d have taken a lot worse to get you out of there sooner.” 

If anything, his words just seemed to upset Arthur more. “I ain’t worth dying for, Dutch.” 

Dutch just scoffed, smiling gently. “A lot of folks would disagree with you there. Me included. You’re special to me, Arthur. You always have been. Don’t you forget that.” 

Arthur was still staring at him, maybe still not quite understanding, but something in his eyes was softening, giving in. Dutch hadn't noticed Arthur was holding his sleeve, fingers wrapped around the cloth, taking another second to understand what that meant. 

“Let go of me, Arthur,” Dutch teased softly, smile never leaving his face. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” 

Arthur’s eyes dropped to his bandaged hand, his fingers weakly curled around Dutch’s arm, and something akin to surprise and joy flickered across his face. It was quickly replaced with discomfort as the pain registered and he pulled back with a groan. 

“It’s ok,” Dutch soothed, wrapping a hand around Arthur’s back as he led him to the log, helping him sit. “See? I told you, you’ll be just fine. Just give it time.” 

Arthur nodded, gritting his teeth and hunching over, his hand pressed tightly against his stomach. Dutch, hesitating only a moment, lowered himself beside him with a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, relieved when he wasn’t pushed away. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said suddenly. He glanced warily at Dutch, who only shook his head. “I guess you were right. About Mary. I’m a damn fool, I should never have--”

“You were giving her a chance,” Dutch said. “You were still willing to help her, even after everything. You’re a good man, Arthur.” 

Arthur laughed, the first one Dutch had heard in too long, slowly pulling his hand back down to his lap, the tension gradually leaving his shoulders. 

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “But, uh, I learned from the best so...thank you. For everything. Thank you.”

“You know, if you had a bit of sense you’d let me track down the Gillis family and make them regret ever laying a hand on you.” Arthur laughed again, the noise killing off some of Dutch’s lingering anger. But the younger man didn’t reply, and he knew better than to bring it up again. 

The sun was beginning its ascend, painting the sky a hazy pink, the gray washed away by the day’s approaching light. The camp would begin to stir soon, waking along with the world that wanted them dead, but Dutch couldn’t even begin to imagine moving from this spot. 

“I need you by my side, son,” Dutch said, meeting Arthur’s gaze. “Now more than ever.” 

“I’ll be here,” Arthur promised. “I ain’t going anywhere, Dutch.” 

They fell into a comfortable silence, Dutch content to simply sit and listen to Arthur breathing as they watched the sunrise. 

The world was changing around them, turning dark and dangerous, but he would do all he could to ensure that they stayed exactly the same.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely loved this prompt and had so much fun writing it, thank you so much for the wonderful idea!  
> Everyone's suggestions are always so great, so feel free to keep leaving them! I have a lot more that I plan to write so I will try to do as many as I can. Thank you for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> For Anon!  
> Thank you for the prompt, I'm so excited to write this! I didn't have a lot of time to work on this but I loved the idea so much I had to get started. Hope you enjoy!


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